I must have been in grade 11.

The object – no, not an object, the girl — of my affection worked part-time at the local Kentucky Fried Chicken in Brantford, Ontario (that’s in Canada).

We’d meet after work, and ever since, the Colonel’s secret spices have held a special place.

In university and afterwards, I always seemed to live within smelling distance of the Kentucky version of deep-fried chicken thingies. And then there was the moving ritual: who hasn’t changed residences without a bucket of the Colonel and a case of beer to pay off the movers? (I’m thanking you, Marty)

It’s been a long time, but driving back from Des Moines Sunday morning with Amy, I was suddenly struck with the KFC urge. It was gross, although the corn-on-the-cob was as good as I remember when Chapman and I got a similar meal in upstate New York before crossing the border into Canada — no corn-on-the-cob in Canadian KFC, at least not in 2003 – returning from a golf trip I was particularly grateful for.

And now KFC is marketing food safety.

Maybe they have been for a long time. I apparently only visit during nostalgia trips.  But there it is, right there on the Colonel’s bucket: rigorously inspected; thoroughly cooked; quality assured.

Now, can I get that same assurance on the cole slaw – the cabbage-containg cole slaw that led to an outbreak of E. coli O157:H7 in 1998 and again in 1999 at KFCs in Indiana and Ohio?